Appearances Are Everything
by RogueMudblood
Summary: Who Am I? They thought it would be funny to write a book in my name. But if you really want to know who I am ... Well, I'm still trying to figure that out myself. Still, what could be more interesting than reading about me, Gilderoy Lockhart?
1. Seeing

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this work of fiction._

_**Author's note**: This is a flashfic (definition is 1,000 words or less) for each chapter._

_I hope everyone enjoys the story. Even if you don't, if you have anything **constructive** to say, I'll be very happy to take your comments under consideration._

_I love reviews. But let me explain something. **Death threats** aren't reviews. They're illegal._

_If you just want to harass me through anonymous reviews, find something more constructive to do with your time._

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><p>I hated the picture.<p>

My hair was mussed, my eyes held just a touch too much begging, and the pose was horrible. I could handle having an image of me out there in a strait jacket, but it should reflect who I really am. The distaste with which one of the healers compared me to the Lovegood family – whoever they are – was very unappealing. The conversation that ensued was incredibly unflattering, and I resented the implication that I had lost my grip on reality.

Yes, I realize people think I'm crazy, but I'm really not insane. I may not know who I am, according to them – after all, that was why they thought it would be incredibly hilarious to publish that book under my name with that horrid picture.

But I really think they mean who I was. Otherwise, we wouldn't need to have these meetings every other day in this office that's far too bright and sterile. Where the healer sits in a chair with a clipboard and a pen, his legs crossed pristinely and his back as straight as a rod for the first twenty minutes of the "session". That's what they call these moments when they feel I need to be away from my room. They take me from the dull-white walls and fluffy white carpet to bring me to this chamber where the light allowed in by the unbreakable panes of the overly-tall window glares off of the metal tiles underneath my feet.

The tiles shine and sparkle, and every so often there's a flash of gold that almost triggers a memory. A brilliant white-gold light that catches the corner of my eye, but seems to run away when I turn to find it. Something told me that it was very important to try to see that light, to find it. And since I couldn't find it with my eyes open, I closed my eyes to try to find it.

Instead of the white-gold light, all I could see was the red of my blood as it flowed through the tiny veins in my eyelids. Grunting in frustration, I tilted my head towards the brilliant shine emanating from the windows. The flood of light almost turned my vision completely white, and for a brief moment, I could see it. I could see that moment in the cavern. The one that got me into this place, the reason I was considered a menace to myself. A brief brilliant second of clarity overwhelmed my senses, abruptly halted by the healer in the room deciding it was time to interrupt my musings.

"So, Mister Lockhart, have you been able to recall any more of your past?"

I was certain that when I opened my eyes they reflected the anger I felt at having that sliver of memory stolen away again just as I was about to grasp it. The healer seemed to back away inwardly, quickly looking down at his clipboard. I refused to answer him. He didn't really care anyway. He only wanted something to write on that slip of paper.

After thirty more minutes of silence, they returned me to my room. The light wasn't as bright, and it was more difficult to find just the right angle, but once I did, I was finally able to _see_ that fateful moment.

To be honest, it frightened me. My own face staring back at me, twisted with hateful triumph. The worst part was over whom I had allegedly triumphed. Two young boys stared back at me, one with anger and a fire I would not have though present in one so young. His hair was nearly as mussed as mine had been in the picture. I'm not sure my clucked disapproval was audible or if it was only in my head, but the important thing was that it didn't interrupt the moment.

The boy with red hair stared at me with terror in his eyes. Words I didn't really understand fell from my lips in the following moments, and then the bright flash.

My eyes opened at the same time as I heard the keys jangling on the other side of the door. Healers rushed in, and finding me sitting on the floor, they assumed the worst. And while they strapped me in on my bed, hands buckled down to my sides so I couldn't write this down immediately, I could still see those terrified blue eyes.

Even the sound of the straps being locked into place, and finally the heavy metal door clanging shut – the key turning in the lock – none of it was able to jar that image from my mind. For the first time since coming here, and all the years of the healers trying to get me to remember something from my time before, I realized that I didn't want to recall those things.

In that one single memory, I had seen just what kind of a life I had led.

And it had been a terrible sight indeed.

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	2. Hearing

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this work of fiction._

_**Author's note**: This is a flashfic (definition is 1,000 words or less) for each chapter._

_I hope everyone enjoys the story. Even if you don't, if you have anything **constructive** to say, I'll be very happy to take your comments under consideration._

_If you just want to stalk and harass me through anonymous reviews, though, I suggest you find something more constructive to do with your time._

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><p>Hate is audible.<p>

Even when it's just written, it drips of such malice that it's completely clear it's pure vitriol, intended only to malign and cause agony. When I realized that, I wondered why no one else seemed to.

Perhaps I could hear it because it came and stood outside my door. Once a week, like clockwork. The door would be open, as they often were during the day when we were expected to be working on our "mental exercises". That was some strange Muggle thing that the healers hoped would aid in restoration where magic had been unable.

What a strange concept. Truly. That something mundane should be able to accomplish what magic could not. Such an odd thought.

Still, it was part of the ritual, so there I sat, doing my Muggle "mental exercises" with the door open. The healer stood in the corner, watching and recording, trying to be unobtrusive – which wasn't at all possible. It was in one of those moments where the healer's wand hummed as it recorded me that I heard hate coming.

My concentration failed completely simply with the echoed footfall. Such a common thing that the healer even stopped to ask me if I would be able to continue. I just looked at him and plastered a goofy grin on my face. The words of greeting floating down the hallway in the wake of those steps made me want to cringe, but I managed to turn back to the task at hand.

At least I could pretend I had, until he was standing outside the door.

The healer looked up when I stopped again. He followed my line of vision and turned to the open door. Greeting the man with a grin, he excused himself to allow me time with my "visitor". I heard myself gulp, but apparently I was the only one who did.

And then, we were alone. Hate and I.

He stood there, verbally silent and giving no indication of stepping into the room. I still had the idiotic grin plastered on my face as I stared up at him. When his eyes narrowed, I looked away. I tried to ignore him, focusing on little things in the room. I picked up the feathered quill they had handed me long ago and heard him scoff.

"Still self-obsessed."

The words were muttered. They weren't very loud at all. But the hate dripped from them in streams. I dropped the quill, but I was certain it went unnoticed. The healer had returned to ask him to leave so I could continue my exercises.

"We'll be sure to keep you posted, Mister Potter. If he ever regains his memory and his full faculties, we will let you know."

A brief nod that I saw from the corner of my eye followed, and then hate was gone. It left much more rapidly than it came, and I was glad for one more week's reprieve from whatever hate had in store.

It was then I realized why I hadn't been as successful as the others who had tried these treatments. I didn't want to remember. I refused, on some level, because I didn't want to know what hate had in store for me if I did. I wondered if that wasn't also some kind of magic- to be able to keep myself from remembering despite everyone's best efforts.

As the healer finally packed up his Muggle tools and left, firmly closing the door behind him, I considered letting myself remember at least that brief moment I had been able to latch on to before. Shutting my eyes, I took deep breaths – employing those Muggle meditation techniques that they had given up with me as a "lost cause".

It hovered in front of me, almost tangible. That same face, the face that came to visit me, carried by footsteps echoing with hate. That same face attached to the hand which wrote words dripping of malice that the head mediwitch read to me in her office periodically. They were never read aloud with an ounce of any emotion, but that terrible hatred echoed from each syllable regardless.

Sitting there in the floor, with my eyes closed, breathing as calmly as I could manage, I could understand why he hated me so much. He always had, it seemed, but that wasn't the whole reason. As I looked at the memory – really _looked_ at it – I could see the hate etched into both of us.

And instantly, somehow, it was clear to me. Harry Potter didn't hate me for what I'd done. If anything, he hated me because of what I had _tried_ to do.

The worst part was that I could understand. And when the image flitted away and I was left with only the feeling of a memory beyond my reach, I wept. And I could hear my own hatred for myself.

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	3. Touching

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this work of fiction._

_**Author's note**: This is a flashfic (definition is 1,000 words or less) for each chapter._

_I hope everyone enjoys the story. Even if you don't, if you have anything **constructive** to say, I'll be very happy to take your comments under consideration._

_If you just want to stalk and harass me through anonymous reviews, though, I suggest you find something more constructive to do with your time._

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><p>I don't know what I was like before, whether I liked hugs or hated them.<p>

When Mister Potter had come again, he brought someone with him. It was a little abnormal. He came alone, or brought the redhead with him. The woman he had brought with him on this occasion was blonde.

To be honest, I wasn't entirely sure that she wasn't another patient at first. She had rambled a bit about things she could see which weren't really there. He had simply smiled at her, letting her carry on. After a bit, she stopped and turned to me, telling me everything would turn out fine in the end. That was when it happened.

I hadn't expected it. After all, no one ever touched me in here except the mediwitches or mediwizards – and then only if they were administering medication or locking me down.

I wondered about the reason they used physical restraints until that moment. It hadn't really dawned on me that it was possible they weren't conserving their magic, or saying we weren't worth the effort. It was because it's more real when it's actually touching you.

She called me "Professor" when she wrapped her thin arms around me. And when she did, the atmosphere immediately changed.

Mister Potter's air of indulgence shifted to anger. His magic crackled, and the lights in the already dim room shuddered as though in fear. Or perhaps that was merely my perception, since I was afraid of his reaction myself.

To be fair, _she_ had reached out and touched _me_. She had initiated contact, and I had only stiffened when her arms had banded around me.

The semantics didn't matter to her companion, though, and he roughly separated us. It felt as though his glare was touching me as well, poking me in the chest and pushing me away. And perhaps it was. Who knows with magic?

I didn't realize I was rubbing my chest until she asked if I was "okay". I nearly burst into hysterical laughter at the mere thought. I had no notion of what constituted "okay". I didn't answer her, though, and for some reason she seemed to think I hadn't heard her. I nearly jumped out of my skin when she gently grasped my hand, squeezing it as though to get my attention.

The world seemed to be in a tunnel as I took in the sensation. I turned her hand in mine, pressing my thumb gently into her palm. It felt the same and yet wholly different from my own. Her hand slipped from mine as my knees gave way. The sudden loss of her touch made me feel slightly empty inside.

It was something I hadn't realized I had wanted, possibly even missed. I suppose that was really what had hit me the most about it – I couldn't remember ever having been touched before. I had nothing to compare it to, but it was the most magnificent thing I had experienced since being here. I simply stared at my hand where hers had touched it, gently tracing the area with a single finger.

I don't know what my face looked like when I was finally able to raise my eyes to hers. I must have appeared somewhat pitiable, because Mister Potter ceased his quiet efforts to urge her from the room. She pulled her arm from his grasp and came back to me, kneeling down.

"Are you an angel?" I hadn't spoken all day, so my voice cracked a bit.

She giggled, the sound so vibrant it almost seemed to wrap itself around me. Unlike her hand, her voice touched inside me as well. Others who had passed by my room, thinking I couldn't hear them – or possibly not caring that I could – had laughed harshly, bitterly. Her laughter was uplifting.

She had answered plainly, telling me she wasn't. Somehow, I thought that angels might deny what they were, so I just smiled and nodded, thanking her for her visit.

"Can I come another time?"

Warmth touched me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, not only from her question, but also from her continuing to wait for my response even after Mister Potter had forbidden her to return. I nodded, and she grinned as she rose. I reached forward before she could withdraw completely, my hand gently touching hers. She smiled, squeezing my palm once more before turning and walking out the door, calling Mister Potter to join her as she went.

When they came a few hours later to lock me in for the night, I hadn't moved. They helped me into bed, but they didn't bother to lock the straps down. It was rare that I went to bed without the leather straps touching my wrists. And though I had just discovered that touch could be a wonderful thing, I was grateful for the reprieve.

I drifted off to sleep hoping that it wouldn't be too long before the angel came back to visit. She had managed, with a single kind act, to touch something I wasn't even sure I had – my heart.

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	4. Tasting

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this work of fiction._

_**Author's note**: This is a flashfic (definition is 1,000 words or less) for each chapter._

_I hope everyone enjoys the story. Even if you don't, if you have anything **constructive** to say, I'll be very happy to take your comments under consideration._

_If you just want to stalk and harass me through anonymous reviews, though, I suggest you find something more constructive to do with your time._

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><p>I never knew that joy was something I could taste.<p>

It had been several weeks since the blonde had visited, and even though I couldn't see all those creatures she had talked about, occasionally I thought they might be hovering nearby. I suppose that occurred to me because when Mister Potter came, his hate wasn't as loud as it had been.

But it wasn't until that visit that I actually knew there was anything beyond this bleak existence with small windows into a more delicate and beautiful world.

Once more I was in that cold, very bright room. They had told me when I arrived that this session would be different. I had raised an eyebrow, but simply took my position at the window, staring out into the too-bright light.

I heard the door open, but I chose not to react. Not until I heard him come inside the room. I tensed, as I usually did, when the sound of hate approached me. But I could sense that something was different, so I turned. The door closed, and I glanced around. The mediwizard in the corner flicked his wand, and I could no longer see him – my eyes seemed to simply skip over that spot of the room, no matter how much I concentrated on staring at it. Sometimes, this magic thing gave me a terrible headache.

The only person I could see in the room was Mister Potter. On other visits, his shoulders were always thrown back, his face was clouded, his head was held high. But as he stood there, nearly the exact opposite greeted me.

His face was twisted with confusion, his shoulders were held at a more natural angle, and with the change in posture he truly seemed to be two feet shorter to me, a much more approachable being. Still, I didn't move. Something seemed to be whispering near my ear to let him take his time and approach me on his own. Bemused by the thought of an invisible creature directing my actions, my brow wrinkled, and I directed my gaze to the far too shiny tiles lining the floor.

That was when it happened again. Golden light once more struck my eyes, and I could see that flash, that moment just before... Before what I wasn't entirely sure. I suppose it was simply before I lost my memory, but as I stared into that moment, losing myself in the emotions of it – the hate, the fear...

And that was when I noticed it. The emotion reflected in my eyes wasn't just anger. It was fear. I was afraid of these two boys standing in front of me, the two children who were looking at me as though I was the arbiter of their fate. I wasn't sure if I was afraid of them, or myself. Sadly, before I could figure it out, Mister Potter's voice drew me back into that room in the hospital.

"I'm not sure it's going to mean anything to you." His voice was soft, and his tears salted the air, even though his face was dry. "It's important that I say this though." He looked into my eyes then, and there was something other than hate staring back at me. "I forgive you."

Those three words hung in the air as though they ended time itself. I almost couldn't breathe. The boy who had stared at me with such hate in that moment, the man who had come every week, once a week, to stare at me as though I were some exhibit in a Muggle zoo, was telling me I was not irredeemable.

Joy filled me at the knowledge that I could be forgiven for whatever terrible thing had happened in that moment. It ran from my toes to my fingers, and filled my mouth as I fell to my knees. I looked up at him, thanking him, tasting the salt of my tears as they rolled slowly down my cheeks to the corners of my mouth.

Even the salt tasted of joy. It was a unique flavor that can't be cheapened by comparing it to the most succulent Christmas ham or the juiciest pumpkin, the spiciest ale. I was overwhelmed with the wonder of it, even as Mister Potter looked down at me and clarified that he could only forgive me for any acts against him. His forgiveness could not encompass anything else I had done – all of those things I couldn't recall and wasn't sure I wanted to remember.

It filled me again, bringing fresh tears to my eyes, when he extended his hand to help me stand once more. I accepted his offer, and he shook my hand before he departed. Even the air tasted of joy, something I would never have thought possible in this room, of all places.

When they finally revealed themselves, the mediwizards escorted me back to my room. The taste extended into the hallway, and followed me into my room. Joy filled my mouth, and I rolled it around on my tongue, delighting in the knowledge that because of Mister Potter – and his strange blonde friend – I had two new things to savor when I was sitting in my room alone, fighting off the misery of this lonely place.

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	5. Feeling

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this work of fiction._

_**Author's note**: This is a flashfic (definition is 1,000 words or less) for each chapter._

_I hope everyone enjoys the story. Even if you don't, if you have anything **constructive** to say, I'll be very happy to take your comments under consideration._

_If you just want to stalk and harass me through anonymous reviews, though, I suggest you find something more constructive to do with your time._

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><p>"So, Mister Lockhart. How are you feeling today?"<p>

At first I hadn't realized there was a difference in _how _I could feel.

I hadn't realized that there was anything other than indifferent until I'd been able to see that memory. Of course, I hadn't actually understood that I hadn't been feeling anything. It's an odd thing, awareness. What made it worse was the fact that I knew I had once been able to discern these things. At one time, I had known something other than the three sentiments to which I could clearly put a name.

The mediwizard tapped his foot against the cold, glistening floor, causing me to look up. I shrugged my shoulders in answer to the question. He cleared his throat.

"Obviously you're not feeling talkative today."

The scratching of his quill on the parchment was the only sound in the room as I turned back to the window. For once, standing in this room, I didn't close my eyes. I let the feeling of the sun's life-giving warmth seep into my skin, heating me. I had no idea what answer exactly he was seeking. I let the heat of the sunlight fill me, the stream of it bringing a light into my soul I hadn't known was there.

"Warm." My voice cracked a bit when I answered him. I didn't speak very often, and I certainly never offered anything up. His quill stopped moving. After a brief moment, I head the clack as it fell against the floor. I couldn't help but smile.

I realized, as my lips curved upwards, that I was still feeling 'warmth', just a different type. That made the experience far more illuminating, but it was also very confusing. Standing in the sunlight made me feel warm, and shocking this mediwizard also made me feel warm. It was a different type of warmth, far closer to what I hadn't been able to really understand from when the blonde woman hugged me.

I turned to find him staring at me, mouth slightly agape. I suppose he eventually realized how he must have looked since he finally closed his mouth, his teeth clacking as they connected. He _Accio_'d his quill and resumed his notes, the scratching far more furious than it had been previously. Closing my eyes and turning back to face the window, I allowed the scratching sound to lull me into what I could finally recognize as a state of calm.

I kept thinking about the question, even as they led me back to my room. He was interested in _how _I felt, not _what_ I felt. I had not recognized the subtle difference while he was scribbling away on his parchment, focusing instead on finding the answer to the question, even if only for myself. I know I felt lonely, even when I did get those letters from some woman named Gladys. Evidently she felt the same way, since she was writing to someone who didn't even know who she was. It never seemed to bother her, though, that I had no clue as to her identity. She wrote me a letter every week, and another had arrived shortly before my "session".

I had saved it, as I often needed something to cheer me after sitting in that enormous sterile room. I sat on the bed, slipping the rolled letter from its ribbon. The magic rippled off of both, protective spells meant to keep the recipient from causing themselves harm should they run their finger along the edge of the parchment. I didn't know why the ribbon was spelled, and had never asked. I did know I couldn't tie two of the ribbons together. I had tried that once to keep up with them more easily. Their ends simply wouldn't knot.

Reading over her letter, I could feel the warmth spread through me once more. It was different, though, from the other two types of warmth that I'd experienced in the session. This didn't heat my skin from the outside. I felt more of a tingling underneath my skin. It almost felt as though something were charging in my veins, rushing about and trying to find a way out. As I ran my fingers over two words on the page, the warmth inside me grew. The feeling rushing around inside me seemed to demand release as my fingers lingered over those two foreign words.

"_Expecto Patronum_."

Focused completely on the wonderful sensation, I could feel it spread through me completely as I spoke the words. Nothing happened that I could see. It seemed to be a bit brighter in the room for a moment, but the warmth I had been feeling inside seemed to surround me like a blanket. I hardly realized I was laying down on my bed, my eyes slipping closed, until it had happened. I could feel my consciousness drifting, the parchment still in my hand. My finger still rested on those words, and I marveled in how such a small thing could cause such a large feeling.

I realized that the best feeling I had ever felt in my life – no matter what it had been before, was warmth. There could not possibly be anything better than this comfort.


	6. Laughing

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this work of fiction._

_**Author's note**: This is a flashfic (definition is 1,000 words or less) for each chapter._

_I hope everyone enjoys the story. Even if you don't, if you have anything **constructive** to say, I'll be very happy to take your comments under consideration._

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><p>I'd never thought about laughing before.<p>

The mediwizards thought it would be a good idea to see how we all reacted to what they found funny. Oh, not the book they published under my name – and I was still incredibly irritated about that incident. No, they had this notion about listening to some comedian's routines. I suppose it was some sort of test, and ultimately, I think they considered my reaction a failure.

It wasn't that I didn't find the comedian funny, but I was too busy listening to them – and to the other patients – to pay much attention to the routine itself. Before I'd managed to recall that one brief moment, I don't know that I wouldn't have laughed just as hollowly as the other patients. Whether their lack of enthusiasm was a result of boredom or of not really understanding what was in front of them, I wasn't sure. It was far more interesting to note the reactions of the medical wizards and witches who were supposed to be watching over the patients.

I don't know if they even realized they weren't really recording their observations. Of course, it's possible that they _were_, and the results were being documented entirely with magic. Perhaps they'd pull those little slivers from their minds later, and watch them in the pool of shimmering water. Hopefully theirs wouldn't be the same diluted, milky color my own had proven to be.

Regardless of their ultimate intent, I was entirely too enthralled at listening to them laugh themselves to react at all to the show they'd scheduled for us.

One of the mediwizards had a laugh that could cause a heart condition. Every time he found something funny, I braced myself against a wall and hoped that the ceiling didn't crack from the volume of his mirth. I was certain that he did actually find the event amusing, which at least showed that they weren't trying to insult our intelligence. Knowing that didn't make me any less afraid that the building would tumble with one of his rumbles. If I had remembered how to do it, I would have cast some type of dampening spell on his voice. But I couldn't even recall if there _was _such a spell, and even if I was certain, I wouldn't have had the first idea how to cast it.

The jokes didn't touch me as they likely should have. Perhaps that was because Mister Potter had brought me a book on comedy for Yule. It was the first time he had visited before the holiday, and also the first time that he had bothered to bring me something other than uncomfortable silence and complete disdain. While I could better understand his contempt after finally remembering that one brief moment, it had been far more comfortable sitting in a room in total silence without the overwhelming hatred permeating the air.

He had told a few of the jokes, forcing a smile and a chuckle. I had smiled politely and thanked him for the book. The next time I saw him, I'd have to mention this performance. He might find the coincidence incredibly amusing. Of course, he had clearly laughed to cover his discomfort. Some of the patients in the room with this comedian seemed to be laughing for the same reason.

One thing was certain. None of the laughter echoing about the room, no matter how contrived, was intended maliciously. I had heard that type of derision when they published that book. I hadn't known enough to be hurt by their incredible lack of compassion. I _had_ been cognizant enough to be incredibly insulted by the attack on my person. They seemed to think it was appropriate behavior, which made me wonder about the true reason behind this endeavor. Whatever their purpose, these mediwizards would learn one thing, something I had come to understand myself over the past several hours.

Listening to them all as they watched the comedian made me realize that not only was laughter a mask, it could also be a medicine. Though the patients seemed largely unaffected, the mediwitches were much more relaxed than they had been at the onset of the comedian's show. The mediwizards were even far less tense as they milled about. And as I listened, I realized that laughter was indeed a wonder, no matter what the reason behind it was. It revealed far more about a person than any number of conversations had proven to do.

I knew I would have to be careful about when I laughed in the future. While it could be dangerous to be _too _cautious, it would also be extremely detrimental to allow any of the mediwizards who had sought to harm my reputation and my sense of self any amount of insight. Unlike the first example I had of this delightful experience, I refused to use laughter as a cruel weapon.

For the first time since entering the room, I smiled genuinely. The comedian immediately perked up, and I couldn't help but give his next joke a slight and sincere chuckle. He became much more enthusiastic about his subject, his comedy far more moving. And in the last few minutes of his performance, I allowed myself to simply stop observing, to just enjoy the moment and give in to my mirth. And I found that there was genuine delight to be had in the simple act of laughing.


	7. Loving

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this work of fiction._

_**Author's note**: This is a flashfic (definition is 1,000 words or less) for each chapter._

_I hope everyone enjoys the story. Even if you don't, if you have anything **constructive** to say, I'll be very happy to take your comments under consideration._

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><p>I've learned that the greatest capacity and conundrum of man is love.<p>

"Mister Lockhart, are you prepared to provide your testimony?"

I was incredibly nervous. Feeling the sweat coating my palms as I walked forward to stand before the tribunal of wizards, I imagined that someone, at some point, must have confused nervousness and love.

"You understand, Mister Lockhart, why you've been called to testify today?" I felt my heartbeat rapidly increase even as I nodded. "Very well then. Take the wand." My hand closed around the thin wood, and something familiar but foreign jolted through me. I heard my voice reciting the words, repeating everything back to the head wizard.

The next half hour of my life passed in a haze. I heard my voice, but didn't listen to the words coming from my mouth. My mind was far more focused on the sensation coursing through my hand as it continued to clutch the wand. It was odd, having my breath seemingly ripped from my lungs even as I tried to speak. Ignoring the feeling was impossible.

"Thank you, Mister Lockhart."

Despite my affinity for the glorious magic coursing through me as I held the wand, I did hand it over to the mediwizard who approached me to take it. It didn't take the most knowledgeable wizard to recognize the first signs of what could easily lead to obsession. It occurred to me, even as I waited for the hearing to conclude, that it might be very easy for that sensation to be confused with love. Perhaps that explained a great deal.

I shook the thoughts from my mind, my attention returning once more to the hearing itself. Mister Potter had escorted his blonde friend in earlier. She stood before them giving her own accounting of events as she knew them, and I had to admit that I did have a fondness for her lilting speech. I couldn't help but smile as I listened to her voice.

"So, Miss Lovegood, you're saying that Mister Lockhart did _not_ request the tomes as the mediwizard has testified?"

My eyes snapped open at the dreadful tone in the Chief Warlock's voice. He seemed predisposed to condemn me. After what I had read about my past life, I could hardly blame him.

"Should a star light the flame of a candle?" I watched the Chief Warlock's eyebrows furrow and hoped she would not cause _herself _any trouble. "I can only answer for what I have myself witnessed, good sir. When merlins call, do you think a gannet answers?" The wizard's cheeks pinkened, and were it possible, I imagine steam would have poured readily from his ears.

The more I listened to her, the more I realized that the blonde wasn't spinning them in circles the way the Chief Warlock seemed to believe. She was answering them very precisely, and I realized that I loved her for it. Not in the way that I felt the desire for the magic I knew to be coursing through my veins, awakened by the touch of that wand. No, I loved her with the fondness of one who is admired for their wisdom.

Mister Potter, however, did not seem to share my affinity. Seeing the redness spread from the Chief Warlock's face into his neck, the young man stepped forward and excused the blonde. I didn't fully understand why he gave an excuse as 'having another of her episodes,' but the gathered wizards accepted it, nodding and waving Mister Potter away. The blonde did not seem at all pleased.

The wizards conferred amongst themselves, a Muffliato charm having been cast to protect their deliberations. Once they had all taken their seats again several moments later, I was very grateful that the horrid buzzing ceased.

"Mister Lockhart." I stood once more, looking the Chief Warlock in the eye. He seemed a bit perplexed by that, though I was at a loss as to why. "It is the decision of this court that you will not be held accountable for the presence of the dark magic tomes which were found in your rooms. Madame Gudgeon's written testimony is corroborated by that provided before this court today." A great wave of relief washed through me.

"The medical staff of St. Mungo's cannot cure you, Mister Lockhart." He paused, taking a deep breath. "It is the decision of this court, therefore, that you will be permitted to leave the Janus Thickey Ward. Perhaps you can build for yourself a new life. Given your previous trespasses, restrictions will be placed upon both you and any wand in your possession."

My knees buckled, and I barely managed to catch myself before I impacted the floor. Was he truly saying that I would be permitted to leave the white-washed, too-bright hell to which the public had consigned me? My ears buzzed as I gasped for air at the mere thought. Blood and magic mixed together as they rushed through my veins, and I felt lightning arcing over my skin. Was he giving me freedom?

In that brief moment, I felt as though I could define the indefinable. Love was not a combination of emotions resulting in biological responses. Instead – at least for me – it was the absence of agony, and the promise of hope.


End file.
